December 27, 2019
By Ekta R. Garg
Enjoy these Spurts from the last two weeks, readers!
Last week, on Monday, we woke up to a couple of inches of snow. After breakfast, as I stood in the mudroom waiting for the girls to pull on jackets and shoes for school, I planted my feet into a pair of ankle-length boots. Eleven looked at the boots, glanced at the bathrobe I still wore, and looked down again.
“Nice shoes, Mamma,” she said.
“I like to be prepared,” I explained, “in case I ever have to get out of the car and trudge through the snow.”
Thirteen took a closer look at my shoes and smirked.
“Are you going to zip them up?”
“No, I figure if I get stuck somewhere, I can take half a second to zip them.”
“What if the police are chasing you?” Eleven asked.
“Then I’ll just bring them back here. You know. Offer them coffee.”
“All she said was, ‘nice shoes’,” Thirteen murmured, “and we get a whole story.”
“All right, let’s move it along.”
Eleven likes a challenge. She also, these days, loves Star Wars and everything to do with the series. Somewhere online she found out about an artist named James Raiz who sketched an enormous mural, in ink, including almost single character important to the franchise.
Then she said she wanted to duplicate it.
When she first mentioned the mural, I did my parental duty: I nodded and smiled like it says to in my contract. One day last week, I asked her to show it to me. In between chopping vegetables and stirring pots on the stove, I took a look at she planned to draw.
My mouth dropped open, but I didn’t want her to mistake my shock for disapproval.
“That’s amazing,” I said. “Look at the level of detail.”
She pulled up a YouTube video of Raiz describing his love for Star Wars, his reasoning for wanting to create the mural, how he planned it, and (in a time lapse) the production and completion of it. I waved my husband over so he could see the final product. He was as impressed as I was, more so by the fact that our child wants to duplicate it.
“That’s really ambitious,” he said.
“Well, I’m a Slytherin,” she said. “I have lots of ambitiousness. Ambitious-ocity! I have ambitious-ocity.”
“That’s not a word,” I told her.
“Yes, it is,” she said, “because I’m a Slytherin and that’s what I have.”
I don’t know what J.K. Rowling and George Lucas would have to say about their universes crossing like that, but all righty then.
I consider myself a pretty good cook, so it came as quite the amusing shock to me that last month the girls declared that all the food I make for them is fake food. The height of irony comes in the fact that they’re complaining about the fact that I don’t serve them processed meals with loads of preservatives, trans fat, or high fructose corn syrup. I take the meals we enjoy in restaurants or on vacations and try to replicate them or at least create something, from scratch, that tastes as good and is nutritious.
If anything, my food is more “real” than some of the stuff available on the market.
I explained this to them; they maintain their opinion.
The discussion of real versus fake food comes up in all sorts of places. Last week, before school got out, the drama teacher invited over the students who have stayed after school and come in on weekends to help out with costumes and sets. She cooked dinner for them, and they played games and got to socialize.
The next morning, I asked the girls what the teacher, Mrs. C., made for dinner.
“Chicken noodle soup,” Thirteen said with a sigh that comes from enjoying comfort food. “And she used real noodles, not the fake ones you do.”
Given that it’s been ages since I’ve made chicken soup, I wanted to protest. Of course, I figured that would just bring forth another complaint about why I hadn’t made the soup in so long. That would be followed by an objection from Eleven that she doesn’t even like soups very much to begin with, and why do we have to eat them during the winter months anyway. (Never mind that there’s nothing quite so warming, and, yes, nutritious, as a large bowl of soup from scratch.)
I’m officially the mother to two middle schoolers; I can’t win either way.
For the past two years, Thirteen has complained good-naturedly about the science teacher, Ms. S. The assignments, Thirteen maintains, are boring, and why did they have to learn about tuberculosis and do experiments and research papers at home anyway? Not to mention that Ms. S. is the type of teacher who’s a stickler for grammar on her papers; misplace commas, and she’ll count it incomplete until all the requisite commas are in their right places.
Shortly after school started, Thirteen and Eleven came home with dread on their faces.
“What happened?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
Turns out that Ms. S. was scheduled for knee replacement surgery and had assigned subs to carry the load for the two months she would be out. The subs had worked with Ms. S. extensively in the past and had a reputation for being as strict as her. The excitement the kids had at having substitute teachers for an extended period of time was dimmed by who the substitutes were.
At the end of the week last week, I went to say good night to Thirteen, and in the dark she sighed.
“I miss Ms. S.,” she said.
I didn’t know what to say for a minute. “You what?”
“I miss Ms. S.,” she said. “Ms. A.’s so strict.”
I was glad it was dark and she couldn’t see me smile. I offered the standard parental platitudes of how the subs would only be around for a little while longer, but they didn’t seem to comfort her much. Thirteen has said many times in the last two years how she wished Ms. S. would take it easy. I guess it’s true what they say: be careful what you wish for.
One of our agendas for this Christmas break was to watch movies. Lots and lots of them. Eleven wanted to watch the Star Wars movies on the DVR to prep for the newest one in theaters. We started with the original trilogy, despite her mild complaint at watching the movies out of chronological order. I’ve seen the original ones several times before and knew they would be a good gateway into the Star Wars universe, so I overruled her vote to start with Episode 1.
Last night as we watched The Return of the Jedi, we couldn’t help giggling over the wookies. Given that Eleven considers herself a bear, she was tickled pink about the bear-like features of these cuddly creatures. As they waddled around and did their best to fight against the Storm Troopers to help Han Solo and Leia in the movie’s climax (often striking themselves or one another in the process,) we laughed so hard our eyes watered.
At one point, two wookies get knocked to the forest floor by a laser blast. They both lie on the ground for a moment; then one gets up and drags on the arm of his friend, still flat. The friend doesn’t get up, and the first wookie gets to his knees to check on the second one. He bends down and puts his face to his friend’s arm as if in an affectionate kiss.
The girls and I “aww”’ed immediately.
“I hope he’s okay,” I said about the unconscious wookie.
“He’s okay,” Eleven said in a bid of hope. “He’s gotta be okay. Nothing’s wrong with him.”
“I’m going to write a fanfic about those two,” Thirteen said, her eyes filled with compassion. “I’m going to write about how they’re friends.”
“And when you do, they’re both going to be okay,” Eleven said.